Ryker had never been one for sentimentality. The road stretched endlessly ahead, a trail of dust rising behind his horse. The weight of his assignment pressed on him more heavily each day. He wasn't just gathering orphans—he was a harbinger of the king's will, a silent enforcer. He had to return with 46 orphans. And every village he visited seemed to mock him for it. Most of them yielded nothing but weak, broken children, or worse—none at all. But his mission was clear, and there was no room for failure. Not when the stakes were this high.
The first village had been a bust. The second had offered little more. But by some twist of fate, or misfortune, depending on how you looked at it, Ryker had found one orphan—a girl named Mukt. Though her voice had been stolen from her, her spirit was undeniable. She had the fire of a lion, and Ryker took to calling her "Mukt"—a name that echoed the fire behind her eyes.
Yet, one wasn't nearly enough. He had a long way to go before he reached 46, and time was running out.
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The sun was setting when Ryker, his men, and Mukt passed through a dense thicket, and they were almost caught off guard. Figures emerged from the trees with swift, practiced movements, their swords gleaming in the dimming light.
A bandit lunged, sword raised high, aiming for Ryker's throat. His reflexes took over, and he swung his arm toward the dagger sheathed at his side. The two blades clashed with a deafening ring. Ryker's heart raced, but his movements were steady and deliberate. His mind stayed sharp. He was no stranger to ambushes like this, but there was something different about this group—something more organized.
"Mukt!" Ryker called, scanning the dense undergrowth for any sign of her.
Mukt had been trying to help, but being just a child, her movements were not as practiced as Ryker's men. She darted toward one of the bandits, aiming to strike with the small knife she'd picked up along the way. But she wasn't fast enough—one of the bandits spun around, slashing his sword dangerously close to her.
The blade whizzed by, grazing her arm, and Mukt staggered back in shock, her face pale with fear.
"Mukt!" Ryker shouted again, rushing toward her.
But just as the bandit raised his sword to finish what he'd started, a figure darted from the shadows, charging at the bandit with unexpected ferocity. The child slammed into the bandit, knocking him off balance, and with a quick thrust of his own knife, drove it into the bandit's side.
The boy stood over the fallen bandit, his chest heaving with exertion. He turned to Mukt, eyes full of something that could have been relief, or perhaps guilt. Mukt blinked at him, wide-eyed, and nodded in silent thanks.
Ryker watched the interaction carefully. This boy wasn't just another orphan—there was something in his eyes, something familiar. But what stood out was his skill. He had moved with precision, far too skilled for a mere child. Ryker's suspicion flared, but the moment was interrupted as the rest of the bandits pressed their attack.
Kessler and Gregor, Ryker's most trusted men, quickly reasserted control of the situation. Kessler cleaved through a bandit with his massive axe, while Gregor, ever the silent killer, dispatched two more with methodical efficiency. Ryker and his men swiftly overwhelmed the remaining attackers, leaving only a handful alive, retreating into the woods.
When the last of the bandits fled, Ryker turned his attention back to the boy who had saved Mukt.
"Who are you?" Ryker demanded, his voice cold but not without curiosity.
The boy looked up at him, a mixture of fear and defiance in his gaze. "I'm just trying to survive."
"Not all who survive do so honorably," Ryker said. "You fight like someone who's been trained."
The boy's eyes flickered with recognition, but he remained silent, not meeting Ryker's gaze.
Ryker's suspicion deepened. "You're one of them, aren't you? One of the bandits?"
The boy's jaw clenched, but he didn't deny it. "I was. I'm not anymore."
Mukt, who had been watching, stepped forward, her eyes fixed on the boy who had saved her. There was something about his quiet intensity that intrigued her. She didn't know why, but she felt a connection to him—a bond forged in shared survival.
Ryker regarded the boy for a moment longer before making a decision. "If you're done with them, you're with us now. Come along."
The boy glanced at Mukt, and after a long pause, nodded. "Lead the way."
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The boy, though initially reluctant, proved himself useful. He guided Ryker and his group to a hidden part of the forest where two more orphans had been hiding from the bandits—another girl and a younger boy. They were frightened and hesitant, but after seeing the boy's determination and Mukt's nod of approval, they followed him back to the group.
Together, the three new orphans were added to the growing band, each one showing some spark of potential, but it was clear they were all still raw, unpolished, and fractured.
Ryker didn't miss the strange dynamics among them. The boy, once a bandit, now carried a subtle sense of guilt and defensiveness. Mukt, though younger and still a child, seemed to understand more than her years would suggest. She was quiet, calculating, her gaze often shifting between the boy and the others. There was a bond there, one that Ryker could not yet fully comprehend. But he saw its power.
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The atmosphere in the village was thick with tension as Ryker's group approached the village head's house. It stood slightly apart from the other homes, larger but no less run down. The door hung slightly open, and from inside, Ryker could hear raised voices.
The village head, a rotund man with a thick beard, was arguing with his wife, his voice full of arrogance and entitlement. He didn't hear them approach until Ryker pushed open the door, his boots clicking sharply on the wooden floor.
The man turned, startled, then quickly masked his surprise with a forced smile. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice oily with feigned politeness.
Ryker didn't waste time. "You've been robbing the kingdom," he said bluntly. "You've bled this village dry and kept your people in chains."
The village head's smile faded, his eyes narrowing in annoyance. "You have no proof," he scoffed. "I've done what I had to, for the good of the village."
"Good of the village?" Ryker's voice was low, dangerous. "You've starved them to line your own pockets. Your reign of greed ends here."
The village head's expression twisted in anger. "You think you can just walk in and threaten me? You don't know who I am—"
Ryker moved with terrifying speed, drawing his sword. The village head froze for just a moment before Ryker's blade found its mark. The man fell to the floor, blood staining the wood beneath him. Ryker stood over the body for a moment, his chest rising and falling with controlled breath.
Turning to the wife, Ryker motioned to the daughter, a young girl who had been standing quietly in the corner, watching the scene unfold. "She comes with me," he said coldly, his eyes locking with hers.
The woman tried to protest, but Ryker silenced her with a look. He wasn't interested in her grief. The girl, trembling, stood still as Ryker approached her. Without a word, he grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the door.
"You've lost your father, and now you'll learn what it means to survive under the king's rule," Ryker said, his tone flat, emotionless.
The girl said nothing, her eyes full of fear. But she didn't resist. She followed Ryker out of the house, joining the others.
As they left the village, Ryker looked back at the house one last time. The village head's reign was over. And now, the daughter would learn to live by his rules.
With the addition of the girl, Ryker's group now had five orphans—five survivors, five future weapons. But there was still more to be done. He had to find the others. There were forty-one more orphans to collect.
Tonight, however, he had made progress.
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